


medicine

by Anonymous



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Gen, Headcanons kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The first time it happened, the smudges under his eyes looked like bruises.





	medicine

**Author's Note:**

> this was a request (song for this fic is medicine by daughter)  
> sorry in advance

The first time it happened, the smudges under his eyes looked like bruises. He would smile weakly and say he was just tired but they knew something else was wrong. His cheeks hollowed so much they gathered shadows like a bowl would gather water, and his lips took on a pallor that made people think he was eating chalk on the sly. ALL, the doctor’s said. Acute lymphocytic leukemia. And it was an appropriate name, because the sickness took it all. It was early and the treatment was aggressive.

 

Mike held his hand the first time and he said the most painful thing was when the nurse gave him the needle. He even made a joke about it, though laughs were few and far between. Mike stayed with him while they waited to make sure he could tolerate it, and Mike stayed with him while the doctor explained the side effects and his hand tightened hard enough to hurt them both. When they left the hospital Mike was the one who made sure nobody got near him because of that new word they’d both learned—immunocompromised. At the end of the day he was so tired he almost forgot to say thank you, but apparently no thanks was needed. Mike was the one who told him it was okay to ask for help.

Bill took him away when his mother started to cry. Bill drew him into another room so he wouldn’t have to watch a woman who he was supposed to think invincible get defeated. When the crying reached even that room, Bill brought him into the closet and they sat there knee-to-knee, reaching out with fumbling hands to cling to each other in the dark. He was scared of the dark because he didn’t know what waited for him there. Bill was the one who told him it was okay to be afraid.

Ben rubbed small circles into his back when the toilet became his new best friend and the taste of sick refused to leave his mouth. Stomach heaving, throat gurgling desperately, tears burning his eyes, he became well acquainted with the cool feeling of porcelain under his palms. Ben should’ve been disgusted but not once was there so much as a flinch. Instead of horrified looks, Ben gave ginger soups and a heart full of love that broke every time he ended up curled weeping on the bathroom floor. Ben was the one who told him it was okay to be break down.

 

He got better. There were a couple of years in between where he laughed with them, loved with them, grew a little older and a little wiser. Every day he enjoyed the taste of ice cream like it was the last thing he’d ever eat, and sometimes when the sun was out he would stare across a field full of life and he would think ‘thank you, thank you, thank you.’ He let snowflakes melt on his tongue and flush his cheeks red in the winter. He picnicked under blossoming trees that made him sneeze during the spring. He screamed in outrage and delight when they splashed him with water at the beach one summer. He put a scarf over his face to hide a blush and held hands with the boy he loved the next fall. And then it happened again.

 

The second time it happened, his skin looked translucent and as delicate as a butterfly’s wings. He was white and blue, skin pure as snow with faint then prominent veins marking the highways of his blood. Being cured and being in remission weren’t the same thing and he’d known that, but he’d thought he’d have more time. Treatment was worse than it had been.

 

Bev gently ran the clippers over his scalp when he decided he was tired of losing soft clumps of brunette everywhere. The image in the mirror was so different from what he usually saw that he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down cheeks that looked like they’d rip from the moisture. Bev set the clippers against the sink and pressed a mouth used to tough words and tougher fists against the unnatural bareness of his head. And Bev’s mouth spoke words that were sweeter and purer than anything he’d ever heard. Bev was the one who told him it was okay to change.

 

The treatment worked, and he suffered. Managing pain was a constant uphill battle that exhausted him to no end. He saw so many white walls and tasted the scent of so much alcohol sterilization that it made him sick. The treatment worked, and then it didn’t anymore. He was so tired. The guilt made him sicker because no one had told him that it was okay to be tired. He tried to smile for them and then he tried to push them away. They didn’t deserve what was happening to him. All of a sudden he was a constant reminder of mortality to a group who shouldn’t have to think about that for years. He hated himself.

 

Stan sat beside his hospital bed and told him about life outside the window. Binoculars were pressed into his weak hands and he watched the nest of a little blue bird. Every day Stan came with the binoculars, and every day he watched the nest until one day the little blue bird’s eggs hatched. Stan explained the short life of a bird and he’d never been so happy to have a mundane conversation. As the birds grew stronger, he grew weaker. When a storm knocked one out of the nest and down below his line of vision, he almost stopped looking. Stan explained that the bird had broken its wing and the hospital gardener had killed it to stop its suffering. It was sad, Stan said, but the bird was in a better place and its family would be okay. Stan was the one who cried and told him it was okay to let go.

Richie came on the second last day and lay down beside him. They breathed together in time with the beeping of machines, and Richie held his hand again the way it had been held during the fall. He told the truth there near the end, with tears in his eyes and sick in his heart. He wanted to take it all back so they wouldn’t have to suffer because of him. He would give anything to erase himself from their memories so they wouldn’t cry. Richie looked at him for a long time without saying anything. Then Richie gave him his first kiss, his second, his third, like secret little gifts whose meanings didn’t need to be explained. Richie was the one who told him it was okay to love.

 

On the last day, he asked for their help. He wanted them there because he was afraid, and when they all crowded around his bed he broke down crying. It was a change from his usual brave smiles, but nobody minded. There were enough tears in the room for people to drown in that day, yet there were also enough smiles to outshine the glow of the sun. They talked about anything and everything, them and him. They held him and said they had no regrets about meeting him. At the end, he was still a little afraid, but he thought they made him brave him enough to face it. So he said goodbye. And because he loved and trusted them, he let go.


End file.
